


The Piercing

by Transistance



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: F/M, Flirting, Headaches & Migraines, Paperwork, Piercings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 19:36:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7477098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transistance/pseuds/Transistance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grell's expenses are <i>bullshit</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Piercing

**Author's Note:**

> [A good and wholesome image](http://67.media.tumblr.com/b37d5b463bf5c9579de5cb08f31358a2/tumblr_inline_oa2r2kvkXZ1sroe3z_500.jpg)

It's five thirty. This means that there is, in theory, only half an hour before the end of the shift; a welcome thought, if only William could believe that he will finish on time. Although it is entirely possible – wholly feasible – really, not _that_ difficult to achieve – he doubts it. Highly.

A single sheet of paper sits centrepiece upon the desk: the last job of the day, all other potential distractions pushed aside under the weight of its importance. It's fairly minimalistic; a neat, black column of words bisects the page, each line accompanied by a small and equally demure associated price. At the foot of the page is a total. This final number is what had been giving William issues.

It isn't a particularly ugly number, per se – aesthetically it is perfectly acceptable. Three identical zeros on the end. Unfortunately it is also more than five times greater than Grell's allotted spending money, which wouldn't be a problem if the document were detailing anything other than this month's expenses, as compiled by one Grell Sutcliff. 

The early warning signs of a migraine are not helping him make sense of it. That several of the items bear names that he's never heard of or is fairly certain he doesn't want to enquire into the nature of is also no blessing. He has been trying to separate the central list out into two separate columns; one for costs acceptably paid for from Dispatch funds (ink, paper, new shoes, several heftily named mechanical pieces that he assumes are for her scythe) and one for costs that she's definitely not going to fob off onto him (lipstick, hair curlers, a selection of the Brontë sisters' works, a new lamp). In spite of this being undertaken by hand, item by item and corrections being made in red ink – Grell had informed him last week that black ink gave _her_ headaches, with no thought as to what red does to William, and although he doesn't believe a word of it he hasn't anywhere near enough energy for another argument – with painstaking care, he has hit a problem.

It isn't a particularly expensive problem, in fairness. On a good day he would simply push it over onto her side of the bill and endure the resulting roundabout explanation as to why it was necessary for her working standards later. But today isn't a good day, and therefore he hasn't been able to do anything other than stare blankly at it, underline it several times and then put a large red _?_ at its side.

 _Piercing_ , says the problem. No further exposition offered. That could mean anything, and given Grell's temperament it seems probable that that something is violent and entirely inappropriate for office conduct. And whilst there must be some more subtle way of enquiring into its nature than calling Grell to his office in person, some form of morbid curiosity has driven him to do exactly that.

She arrives a little late, as expected, flouncing her way into the room with a flourish before exclaiming, “I've been summoned! And at quite the unexpected hour, too. Why, five minutes earlier and you would have caught me all afluster – but you didn't, so it's-”

“Sit down, Grell.” Her ability to suck the energy out of a room for her own use constantly amazes him, in the worst sense of the word. William waits until she has taken the seat before underlining the offending article twice more, swivelling the paper to face her and then tapping it with his finger. “Piercing,” he says aloud, to remove any chance of her pretending to misunderstand. Grell tips her head at him, one eyebrow cocked.

“Yes?”

He waits for further words, and is annoyed when none come. Playing airhead is an activity which Grell seems to take great delight in – and it is just as annoying now as it had been when he'd first noticed her doing it. “Explain.”

“Explain what?” Her expression mirrors his now, lips pursed in an uncertain pout. “I had my navel pierced. What's wrong with that?”

“You-? I swear, if that's a euphemism-”

“Will, sweetheart, you're being unusually slow today.” This revelation seems to change the game, because Grell stands up again abruptly. “Do you want to see it?”

“No.” He doesn't want to know. Bringing her in had been a mistake, and asking her to justify herself is always a terrible idea, and his disagreement has apparently made not an ounce of difference because Grell's fingers are on the lowest buttons of her waistcoat already. “Grell, don't.” As if direct instruction had ever worked. She acknowledges the order only by catching his eye and smiling brilliantly before she pulls open her shirt.

William braces himself for the worst – he expects a snarled mess of red hairs, scars, the sort of factory-brand male body that presents normality at best and carelessness otherwise – but that's an asinine assumption in its entirety, obviously, because whatever everyone else sees Grell doesn't think of herself as a man. Her midriff turns out to be flat and white and utterly smooth, the singular tone punctured only by the red stud occupying her navel; a landmine in a reservoir of snow.

“What the hell,” he mutters without thinking. Not a particularly intelligent start, followed by an equally inarticulate, “Why..?”

“Because it's _pretty_ ,” Grell informs him, her tone suggesting that she believes the concept may cause William some difficulty. She frames the piercing with her hands, pushing her belly forward slightly as though mimicry of the female form. “Don't you agree?”

“I've no opinion on the matter.” It's a little difficult to drag his eyes all the way up her front to meet hers, the effect made far worse by the fact that, as he is still seated, his face is about level with her navel anyway. He can't stand now, though – to do so would make the insecurity obvious. Another thought occurrs. “Did it not hurt?”

Grell laughs, edging her way slowly around the desk. “We're reapers, darling, _Death_ – and you needle me enough as it is that I'm more than used to the sting. And you _do_ like it, I can tell! Admit it.”

“I'm not paying for it,” he evades, frowning again. “And whether I like it or not doesn't matter, because thankfully I have the option of never laying eyes on it again.” To illustrate this he leans forward and takes hold of the fronts of her shirt, drawing it closed over her skin one button at a time. He works his way up the line of her body with no particular rush, watching the motions of his own fingers instead of paying attention to her clothes until he's at her throat, at which point he stands properly, straightens her waistcoat and drops his hands. Grell is staring at him, eyes huge and dilated. The faintest hints of a flush have betrayed her by escaping the coat of her makeup – _that's_ pretty, more or less, as far as he can tell; at the very least nicer than her usual dead pallor. She touches her own collar in a brief and unsure gesture before she manages to close her lips and swallow heavily. 

“I was thinking of having more done,” she murmurs after a moment, breathless and teasing, close enough that he feels the words brush his skin. “My nose, my tongue – maybe a few rings through one eyebrow, hm?”

“Absolutely not.” The idea of her face being festooned with studs is entirely distasteful, and William finds himself unconsciously glowering.

“There aren't any rules against it.” She's smirking now, eyebrows all over the place. “Give me one reason that I shouldn't, darling, when this one has been so great a success?” One of her hands presses flat against his chest, compelling, and William brushes it off with a sigh.

“I wouldn't like it,” is both honest and exactly the answer that Grell wants. Her grin spreads until it lights up her eyes; paints every line of her face into those of a wholly different woman.

“ _You_ wouldn't like it?” she echoes, half turning on her heel in a manner that's almost coy. “Well now, that changes everything.” 

Pretending to shift her attention by adjusting her shirt, Grell takes a minute and then says, “Oh – the lamp is for my office. The old one got smashed.” She leans around him to pick up the red pen and move the item from one list to the other, and William doesn't stop her. Lamps aren't exactly a luxury. Her eyes linger on the page, taking in his other judgements, and then suddenly she's half way across the room – having clearly decided that the encounter has reached its conclusion. “Just call me if you want another look, okay? _I'm_ not pay per view.”

William scowls, although it's more at the insinuation than Grell herself. “I won't.”

“Well, the offer's always open if you change your mind!” she trills, and William mutters a very sarcastic _Thanks_ in reply. Grell snickers and makes her escape.

She hasn't been out of the room five seconds before William realises that the report is still asking far more money than can be given, and that he is therefore going to have to sift through it all _again_ with _more_ red ink and far less tolerances toward her spending habits. It's going to force him into overtime. The inclination to simply bury his head in his own elbow and groan for as long as possible is strong, but the logical understanding that this will only add further minutes to the shift prevents him from doing so. Instead William sits, takes up the pen again with only a short sigh – trying to ignore the pounding in his head, trying to avoid thinking about Grell's awful flirting and her poor pierced navel. Who in their right mind would find that attractive?

The numbers don't add up. William puts a hand to his face in order to massage his throbbing temples, and realises rather suddenly that it's going to be a very long evening.


End file.
